


If I can't change your mind

by isitandwonder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Choking, Comeplay, Dom John, Established Relationship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Milking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 07:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6696160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is basically pwp. But I felt in the mood for some smutty porn.<br/>Unbeta'd and not brit-picked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I can't change your mind

John watches Sherlock lying on the sofa, all long white limbs and languid posture, his concave belly barely heaving while breathing, the only sign that he's still alive, not some marble statue that by sheer coincidence has ended up gracing their stained leather upholstery with its daunting presence.

Sherlock is naked down to his waist, just clad in flimsy cotton pyjama bottoms (definitely no pants). It's hot in the flat; the slightly ajar windows let in warm summer air (smelling of London i.e. fumes, kebab, blocked drains, coffee, sickeningly sweet rot and decay). There's not even a soft breeze moving the curtains. Sherlock's naked, pale torso is glistening with sweat. Remnants of dried come are visible on his pectorals. His forearms sport dark bruises. He wears them like a badge.

John remembers grabbing Sherlock's arms so tight he could feel the capillaries break under his skin, crushing sensitive tissue, making Sherlock gasp. He'd smiled up at John, his wicked little smile, while John had pounded into him viciously, pushing Sherlock's arms up over his head, pinning him down, holding him into place, forcing him to take it.

John's cock twitches enthusiastically as he remembers, even if he seriously doubts that Sherlock will be up to anything some time soon. He's still so very tight. And John tends to loose his patience. He knows he should be more careful but it's hard to hold himself back with Sherlock offering himself up, ready to do anything John wants him to. He's so very eager and resilient. John's sure he would let him fuck him again even now, as he's most likely still sore.

John indulges in the memories of the morning. He didn't allow Sherlock to shower after he'd fucked him. John loves his smell, his taste afterwards and wants it to linger. He wants Sherlock to feel his come trickle out of his used swollen hole. Sometimes John licks it up, pushing his tongue in and sucking while Sherlock writhes and gasps beneath him. But not this morning. Instead of using his gentle tongue John relentlessly fingered Sherlock for more than an hour afterwards, only aided by the residue of lube and his own sticky come that kept Sherlock's tight passage adequately slippery – at least at first. 

Even when Sherlock was on the brink of collapsing and shutting down, his hole red and so very sensitive, John didn't stop. Instead he ordered Sherlock to grip the headboard and hold tight. After some minutes Sherlock's knuckles turned white. Semen was drying on his stomach and chest; his flaccid cock rested in a nest of wiry and surprisingly ginger pubic hair between his legs. 

When John's left hand tired he changed over to his right, watching mesmerised as two of his fingers sank deep into Sherlock's body.

“Spread your legs wider,” he breathed, so turned on by the sight that he felt his hairs stand on end at the back of his neck. He desperately wanted Sherlock to take a third finger, to stretch him beyond his limits.

“John, please, I can't... anymore, please...”

John stilled and stared up at Sherlock's flushed face, eyes wide, nearly black and glazed over.

“I don't think you are in any position to object, Sherlock. So do as you are told.” John's voice was soft but firm.

“John, it's too much...” Sherlock gasped in a low whimper.

“That's not for you to decide. Now spread your legs or you'll be very sorry,” John said, not unkind but the threat was barely disguised. Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his face away. A shudder ran through his body. The last time he didn't meet John's expectation (he'd been gagging on John's massive cock shoved down his throat, choking and slobbering so much that no satisfaction was to be obtained) John had made him sit on a hard backed chair with a 10 inch dildo up his arse all morning before inserting a piece of ginger into his stretched hole. It had stayed there for the rest of the day, until Sherlock had begged John on his knees to show some mercy. He'd promised never to fail John again. John had eventually removed the burning root – but only after Sherlock had managed to take his hard cock fully into his mouth, swallowing nearly everything (gratefully licking his own come off the kitchen floor afterwards).

These memories seemed to do the trick. Sherlock pulled his knees up and apart and his cock stirred as John made excellent use of his exposed hole, adding another finger for good measure.

“You remember that fat dong I put up your arse, don't you?” John rasped. Sherlock only nodded, devoid of speech, closing his eyes and biting down on his lower lip.

“I want to hear you say it,” John groaned, twisting his fingers slightly, his knuckles deliciously stretching the ring of tight muscle. 

“Fantastic, it felt tremendously good. You made me sit on it for hours and it was incredible,” Sherlock gasped.

“Still able to use multisyllabic words? I fear you're still not in the right mood, honey.”

John continued his ministration with more commitment, curling his fingers up inside Sherlock's body until Sherlock was reduced to a sweaty, sobbing mess, begging for more even as tears ran down his sharp cheekbones. The lube and come that had slicked his arse an hour before were long gone, leaving John rubbing Sherlock's flesh roughly until he chafed. Eventually - brushing his fingertips over Sherlock's prostate – he allowed Sherlock to climax again, shooting a few thin stripes of almost translucent semen up over his sternum. John watched Sherlock's arsehole twitch and flutter around his three fingers before spending himself over the tender crack of Sherlock's arse.

That's why, only a few hours later, Sherlock's arse is still most definitely off limits. But there are other possibilities... John's cock is straining against his jeans by now. He gets up, walks over to the coffee table and lowers himself on it. Sherlock senses his presence and opens his strangely beautiful eyes, now a deep grey with blue sprinkles.

“Hey, gorgeous,” John greets him. Sherlock gives John a lazily knowing smile.

“You are insatiable,” Sherlock growls in his velvety baritone but he doesn't sound seriously put out.

“I just thought about what we did this morning.” John smiles and Sherlock hums in appreciation. “It was so fucking hot. You were.” John licks his lips. Sherlock's eyes darken.

“You want me again.” It's not a question. There's suddenly goose flesh on Sherlock's arms, despite the heat. His rosy nipples harden visibly.

“Yeah, but I don't think you are up for it.” John reaches out and lightly touches the bruises on Sherlock's forearm with his fingertips. “I'd very much like to fuck you right now but you took it hard this morning. It'll hurt.” John strokes Sherlock's glowing skin, pinching a peaked nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. Sherlock arches up into his touch and moans.

“I don't care. I want it. I can handle it.” Sherlock's eyes, all open and trusting, never leave John's face.

“I know you can.” John's hand wanders lower, his fingertips brushing over Sherlock's moist abdomen and the downy hair below the belly button leading to his evidently interested cock. His voice is warm with appreciation. “But I think I want something else.”

John's hand reaches between Sherlock's legs and palms his cock through the soft cotton. Sherlock's eyes flutter shut. 

“Anything.”

John knows Sherlock means it. He removes his hand from kneading Sherlock's impressive erection and nudges him to sit up.

“Get that off.” John indicates the pyjama bottoms. “I intend for you to make a right mess of yourself.” Sherlock is quick to comply.

His cock is hard, the foreskin fully retracted, the head flushed dark, the slit glistening. John takes Sherlock's large hand by the wrist, brings it to his mouth and licks a wet stripe over the palm.

“Touch yourself.” He huffs. “Let me see.”

Sherlock brings his damp hand down between his legs and starts stroking. He spreads his legs and rests his bony feet on either side of John, who's still squatting on the coffee table. As Sherlock leans back against the cushions, he cants forward and upwards, exposing his crack and his still dark pink hole.  
John licks his lips and watches.

Sherlock takes his time. Precome is pooling at the slit; Sherlock's thumb smears it over the glans, the ridge, massaging his frenulum. He starts panting when his other hand comes up, playing with his balls, fondling them, rolling them in his palm. His hand squeezing his glistening shaft makes obscenely wet noises as it speeds up. Sherlock's head is thrown back, his long white throat exposed, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

John feels hot all over. His jeans are much too tight. He pulls his t-shirt up over his head and tosses it carelessly into the corner near the living room door. Then he slowly starts to unbutton his fly. He's decided to go commando as well – it's just too damn hot – so his stiff cock springs free as soon as the opportunity arises.

John watches Sherlock's hand slow. He's obviously enjoying himself as he teasingly pulls at his foreskin, ghosting his fingertips over the prominent vein on the underside of his shaft. Up and down. Sherlock's hips buck up into his own touch.

“You like that, don't you?” John croaks, his voice wavering as he strokes himself leisurely. Sherlock nods once, biting his lower lip – a sight John finds unbearably erotic.

The head of Sherlock's cock is covered in clear precome. John can smell him. As Sherlock's fingers dip lower, behind his tightening balls, John leans forward and presses his flattened tongue against Sherlock's wet slit. 

Sherlock almost howls and nearly bolts at the sensation, snapping into an upright position, his back rigid. John so very rarely spoils him like this. Sherlock presses his index finger into himself up to the first knuckle as John's lips tighten around the ridge of his glans, sucking hard.

“God, John, please...” Sherlock gasps as he looks down on John giving him head. He can feel John's tongue swirling around the head of his cock and is just prevented form bucking up into Johns mouth by two firm hands covering his sharp hip bones, pinning him to the leather cushions of the sofa. Sherlock's hands have stilled. He just keeps pressing his finger into himself and John's forceful grip drives it just that little bit deeper. He's still raw and it burns but the slight discomfort prevents Sherlock form instant combustion and spending himself into John's mouth regardless.

All to soon John retreats, however, removing his delectable lips with a wet plop. Sherlock nearly wails at the loss. 

“John, please... John!” he pants, sweat running down his temples, his disarrayed curls sticking to his forehead. Sherlock's chest is flushed a delicate light pink, his darker nipples two hard pebbles standing to attention. John smiles up at Sherlock as he brings his palms flat down over them and applies pressure. Sherlock moans again as he's pushed back, more desperate now, and his released hips finally seize the chance to move, pushing up into disappointing emptiness.

“Yes, what is it, Sherlock?” John whispers, massaging Sherlock's chest in slow circles, rubbing his hands over Sherlock's sensitive nipples. He can taste Sherlock on his tongue, in his mouth.

Instead of an answer, Sherlock arches up, brining his open mouth within only half an inch of John's glistening lips, smeared with saliva and precome. Both men still for a fraction of a second, before Sherlock's tongue darts out and slides coyly over John's bottom lip. After tasting himself there he tentatively brushes the tip of his tongue over John's upper lip as well, tracing his cupids bow. Both men groan at the sensation, and suddenly they are frantically kissing, all tongue and open mouth, pushing into each other violently, nearly biting.

Sherlock pushes his finger yet even deeper into himself while John tries to still him, but it's too late, Sherlock can feel his balls tighten as his orgasm pools first low in his belly, then tingling at the base of his spine.

“John... John!” he gasps and luckily John is pretty damn smart even in a situation like this, so he grabs the back of Sherlock's head with one hand, pushing his fingers into sweaty curls, pulling fiercely, while his other hand closes around Sherlock's cock, stroking him once, twice and then Sherlock comes, shuddering, panting. He sits up and this position presses his finger fully into him up to his palm and he fucks himself on it until his climax ebbs.

“Sorry,” he mumbles afterwards, dazed and blissed out despite the apology.

But John is mesmerised. He stares down at Sherlock's flushed face, his swollen lips and the pulse still hammering in his temple. 

“You are so fucking beautiful like this,” John whispers and the need is evident in his voice.

He brings up his sticky hand, dripping with Sherlock's come and holds it right before Sherlock's face, who eagerly lips at them, grabbing John's wrist to pull the fingers into his mouth, sucking them, cleaning them up, all the while gazing intently into John's eyes.

“I need to fuck you know,” John growls, an almost animalistic noise. “Turn around.”

Sherlock is quick to obey, kneeling on the seat of the sofa, bracing himself with one arm thrown over the back rest, his index finger still up his arse. John looks down at the sight appreciatively while he massages Sherlock's buttocks.

“Show me how you fuck yourself,” he rasps and Sherlock starts pulling his finger nearly all the way out before pushing in again. It burns, there's no lube, but he's still sufficiently stretched from earlier, so when John impatiently pulls his finger out and replaces it with his fat cock, the copious amount of precome leaking from John's slit is enough to slick the way.

Sherlock feels very sensitive and full shortly after his orgasm but he willingly yields to John's forceful intrusion.

“I'll fuck you really slow. I came so hard twice this morning that this could take hours.”

“Yes, John, please...” Sherlock chants as John keeps true to his word and languidly starts to fuck him, pushing in, pulling nearly all the way out, pushing back in.  
John watches as his cock sinks deep into Sherlock's arse. He's loose enough to accommodate John but still so tight to provide very satisfactory friction. John takes his time, setting a steady pace. He can hear his blood pounding in his ears as his hips slap against Sherlock's sweaty backside again and again. Sherlock is moaning continuously, almost sobbing, breathing John's name like a mantra. John keeps silent, concentrating on not loosing his rhythm.

After about fifteen minutes of persistent fucking Sherlock's legs are about to give out. He squirms beneath John, begging him to finish, first with his body – pushing back against John more and more insistently – then with words, even as he knows that this will most likely be futile.

“John, god... please... come on, please, fuck me... I can't...”

Suddenly John brings his right arm around Sherlock's throat and pulls him upright, until Sherlock's glistening back is pressed flush against John's equally damp chest. This changes the angle just for the better, for John is now hitting Sherlock's prostate with every thrust. Despite three orgasms in six hours, Sherlock's prick starts to fill again, leaking thin white semen as John milks his prostate with every push.

Sherlock wants to plead, to protest but John's arm tightens, cutting off his breathing. All noise is drowned out; there's only the intense feeling of John invading his body, over-stimulating his sensitive parts, breaking him, laying him bare. Sherlock's whole being is reduced to pure white sensation. He's zoning in on John's cock up his arse as John is blocking his windpipe. The pleasure is nearly unbearable. Sherlock can feel John's hot breath against the back of his damp neck. He's panting hard, nearly there.

Sherlock's vision gets blurry at the edges as John finally gives in. A few hard deep thrusts and he's spilling himself inside Sherlock as the lean body of his lover collapses in his arms. John comes and comes – nearly blacking out himself – as Sherlock spasms in his grip.

John just about in time removes his arm and Sherlock slumps down, chocking, taking deep breaths more out of reflex then conscious thought. Both men are reduced to bare carnal functions – and it's glorious.

They stay like this for some time – John cradling Sherlock's heaving body from behind, holding him, pressing open mouthed kisses between his shoulder blades, tasting the salty sweat that has gathered there. Sherlock can't and won't move; he feels content, secure as John holds him tight and whispers soothing confessions against his bare skin. 

“I love you.”

“I need you.”

“You are mine.”

“I am yours.”

“Don't you ever leave me again.”

Eventually they will shower, then order some take-away. Later, Lestrade will come by, pitching a case to Sherlock that he can't resist taking but he will carefully roll down his sleeves before leaving the flat for the crime scene. He doesn't wish for others to get privy to what he and John get up to behind the closed doors of 221b Baker Street, for that is theirs, and theirs alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I was asked on tumblr way back last year to write some dom!john. Eventually I got into the right frame of mind. I hope you liked it?!  
> 


End file.
